


I Am Where It Takes Me

by Sonny



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-29
Updated: 2011-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-17 13:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonny/pseuds/Sonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the same vein as “The Hideaway”, so it's just another day off the road with Sam and Dean ; Dean wants to plan to take a “vacation” with Sam...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am Where It Takes Me

 

 

 

Sam doesn't remember the exact day he first shared a kiss with his older brother, Dean. All he recalls is that kissing Dean has made him feel like he finally “fits”, like he'd been a square-peg trying hard to fit into a round hole. And now, he can't pinpoint how, but he's rounded some of his most severely angeled corners and has become the perfect fit.

Dean remembers the exact minute—the exact second, actually—he kissed his little brother, Sam, and he can go into very minute details about their lips meeting, how his gut clenched with fear of rejection and how intensely Sam shook in his tight grip. What he's found in kissing Sam is something to believe in again, someone to have faith and hope in and someone he knows will love him past all his fuck-ups and flaws, right to the core of who he really is.

It's funny how their dynamic has shifted since sharing an intimacy that bordered on sexual. There's no more fight left to show the other up. There's no more squabbling to say “Dad loved ME more!” or “Dad loved me less!”. There wasn't even an attempt to replace the absent parent in their lives: Dean didn't need the fatherly love and acceptance and Sam wasn't begging for motherly affections he couldn't remember past six months old.

They are simply Sam and Dean; brothers and then some. And that “then some” was tantamount to them making it out of a hunt alive with arms and legs intact. Where before they had a smidge of doubt the other wouldn't try to back out of a promise vowed, now there was a surefire “no way in hell” either would stray far from the path ahead of them.

They cannot deny their legacy born from two dead parents who instilled in them an unspoken loyalty and an unconditional love that both men still live by today. They are hunters; they won't even try to be anything else. They are destined to be alone, together; the Winchester family line will die with them. They want it that way; they've begun to end the circle of life with them. They won't even tempt themselves with women or falling in love, thinking about a home with kids; they know it's not theirs to have. They aren't normal; they've never been normal.

They aren't sure how other hunters will take the change in their relationship; it's subtle, but it's visible in small ways. Neither of them give a crap, but it's good to always be self-aware and protect ones-self. Dean's a bit more affectionate, is all, letting his touch linger longer over Sam's ass or his lower back. Sam is less verbally combative, though he still loves to spar words with Dean every so often; he goes shy and quiet a little more, but that's only because once finding his brother so god-damn attractive, it's tough to look away from those green eyes and not want to sift fingers through those soft dirty-blond spikes.

What's odder now is that they don't mind hunting separately these days, if only to meet up later and compare notes. Well, not before they've showered, made-out or had sex and then relaxed in little-to-no-clothes as they shared information. In fact, that's been their MO for awhile now and it's become a routine they enjoy when the cases pile up or happen to end up merging together.

And that's exactly how we find Sam and Dean, _thus far_...

 **~~ &&~~&&~~**

Dean meanders out of the motel front office, an actual key in his hand with a tiny drawn map of the motel's acreage. He doesn't want to be up front, nor close to the center, he wanted as far back in the first floor room roster they could get. He called Sam about an hour ago and he was fifteen miles behind him, chugging away on Interstate 65. There's no telling how long Sam will take, so Dean intends to make his way to the Impala, then slow-drive toward their room number. He walks with a bit of a bow-legged stance only because he's been feeling uncomfortable in his jeans since he left that damn deserted cave on the side of the mountain. He thinks it's because his body is anticipating Sam's arrival, not having seen him since they parted ways early last night. Sleeping alone had been near torture, but what had truly been his downfall was not having that familiar feel of a passenger beside him.

Too many things about his case made him want to crack a joke or say something anecdotal, but then he bored himself at times and he'd look psychotic if he just kept laughing to himself constantly. He tends to need that “other person” to ground him in reality so he doesn't slip into insanity. He knows who he actually needs and he knows he won't get it if they keep on trying to double-up their caseload in order to feel less guilty about going on vacation.

Ahhhhh... _vacation._ It's not even in the Winchester dictionary. Every day is a “vacation” for them, right? Why would they want to—? Yeah, Dean's heard it all before and he'd like to punch the next person in the mouth who gave them a sideways glance about wanting to take time off. He's got it all planned; he's had it all planned for months. Since they've been separating more lately, he's able to venture out and do his own “research”. Granted it's nothing for a case, but he is doing some rather thorough searching for the right kind of vacation to take and where the hell to go that they haven't been to before.

For Dean, it's not even about the vacation as much as it's being _with Sam_. He wants to know what it's like to be with Sam in a typical every day setting that isn't going to include one of them being left wounded or scarred for life mentally. He's even contemplated a trip into the city and getting a pricey penthouse suite just to lie in bed with Sam and... yeah, but then that's just fulfilling _his_ deepest wish, not Sam's. He has to let Sam have some kind of input. So every once and awhile, he'll ask some random question; Sam thinks it's because Dean wants to find cases in these towns. Or Dean will bring up old family stories of them on the road and require Sam to tell him what he liked most or would he ever like to visit there again; Sam simply thinks Dean is getting addled in old age (pressing thirty) and he's missing Dad. Dean lets Sam think whatever he wants, so he can cover his ass— _his tracks_.

Sam used to be able to read Dean like clear paper, now his mind is riddled with images and memories of their new relationship. Dean used to be able to understand Sam, but now that they've started having sex... _feelings_ are getting in the way. It's not like he didn't have “feelings” before, with other people or strong attractions to women. Dean never felt emotions this heavy and worrisome: where he can't see himself ever wanting out and running away, but then he's scared to stay or hold on to tight. Sam has always made it very clear how he feels, but Dean can't help the doubt that fluctuates in the lulls or when he's alone... thinking of a What If where Sam's no longer with him or if he had never gone with him to look for Dad all those years ago.

Sometimes Dean feels like he's drowning, but it's his own sinking ship. Sam is perfectly fine, or he just looks calm, cool and collected— _little bitch!_ Dean takes out his keys and grabs for the door handle when he catches sight of this dusty and dirty human form riding a Harley through the front entrance of the motel and coming directly for him. It's not until the front tire is almost near him that he realizes it's Sam. _Dear God... when did Sammy learn to ride a hog?_

Dean swallows down a stilted laugh only because once Sam cuts the engine and rest the bike on the kick-stand, taking off his helmet, it's clear to him that Sam had a crap case as well. He's covered in dried, sticky ectoplasmic goop; it's as if he bolted from the son-of-bitch and shot at it with the sawed off while driving his motorcycle, like some damned Hollywood flick. Not only does Dean like the look of the bike, he likes the look of it between Sam's legs. Those thighs flexing and the long limbs curled around the structure of the hefty frame. Black motorcycle boots planted firmly to the ground, Sam is able to balance himself on the bike even though it's tilted to the kick-stand. He throws the helmet at Dean who manages to catch it with both hands.

“I guess this means it was a success.” Dean tosses the helmet around so he can hook his fingers through the visor. He wanders over to Sam, watching as he peels off the gloves, one finger at a time, then reaches out to touch the shaggy brown-hair. His own fingers stop at the frayed ends, trying to get a sense of what the hell kind of creature Sam was up against—and why hadn't he taken _this_ case instead of the scavenger hunt he went on?

Sam lifts up one end of his mouth in a tell-all smirk. He's got both gloves in his hand and he folds one palm over the other on the gas tank's surface. “Her and her offspring.” He wants a shower— _needs a shower_ —badly. But he's finding the sight of Dean to be the kind of relief he's been needing—he doesn't need a shower that much if Dean wants to touch him like this. The curious fingers went from hair to shoulder, on down biceps and forearm and then landed on flattened thigh, then the hand took a nose-dive toward his inseam and Sam broke out into a smile almost as broad as his shoulders. “... miss me?” He likes to tease Dean, because he knows it's true.

Not even caring that they were in plain sight of passing traffic, other motel patrons and the motel's front office, Dean pulls off his hand to loop his arm about Sam's shoulders. At first, it looks like a brotherly, affectionate one-armed hug, but then the hand crawls up the shoulder to curl about the elongated neck and Dean is tipping Sam's head, cricking his neck as he bends him over his forearm and kisses those waiting lips soundly.

They both exhale through the nostrils, then break apart; Sam leans his head into Dean's protective arm as Dean rests the helmet on the bike, using his pelvic bone as leverage and then shapes his other hand around Sam's throat. Sam doesn't smell any different— _like afterbirth or hundred-year-old egg_ —he smells of open road and dirt, of Sam who had started out freshly-showered and laundered with a splash of an after-shower cologne that's so light you don't detect it until you're right up on his skin and you can taste it on your tongue and through your nostrils.

Dean slides his mouth down and over to lap at the rough skin of the cheek—taste? Whatever Sam is covered in tastes like sugar—like cotton candy. He doesn't want to know what it is or where it came from, he only wants to wash it off Sam himself, forget the shower. He feels Sam's arm come up between their chests, fingers grappling to latch onto his shirt front, splayed open by his jacket lapels. Sam's hand doesn't stop there and ventures on lower to slip under the hems of his shirts to find the waistband of his jeans; the fingers want to open the button-fly and stroke his cock naturally—like they do in bed sometimes.

Dean's the one who has to pull away because if it were up to Sam he'd haul him backwards on the Harley, facing him and they'd have sex in public or at least carry each other to orgasm. The minute Sam senses Dean drawing backward, he grabs helmet and gloves, about ready to start the bike's engine.

“What room?”

“84.” Dean isn't moving away from Sam on the bike. He wants to climb behind him and ride over, just so he doesn't have to do the two-minute preparation it'll take to get the Impala started. He points his finger down quite a bit of ways from where they are.

“I'll meet you there.” Sam jets off with a wink, leaving Dean in the paltry dust.

Dean thinks he could get there faster if he just bolted, leaving the Impala right where it was. But he needs the car close-by; _they_ need the car close-by. As he climbs behind the wheel, shutting the door, he starts the engine and hits the gas pedal while in neutral to just get the engine warmed; he'll need to take it to a mechanic soon or at least a Jiffy Lube or a Pep Boys where someone can look over the insides professionally. He's not sure anything he can do will help. He backs out of the parking slot, then turns the wheel so his front wheel carriage is straight and he drives forward. Now he doesn't have to slow-crawl and look for room numbers; Sam's already off the bike and walking onto the sidewalk toward room 84's door.

Dean parks the Impala two slots over to throw off people, something Dad used to do. As he gets out, he wanders to the backseat to pull out their bags.

Sam wanders over to pass him by with a hand at his back, dipping forward to say, “Keys, please. I'll get what's in the trunk”.

Dean smiles off-handedly, completely forgetting what he has back there in the trunk. He's lost in the moment of being with Sam, of having some time to themselves before they moved on to the next cases one state over. He loops the straps over his shoulder, of what he can carry off his arm, then he uses his hands to lug the rest. Dean takes out the key to the motel room and plops their bags right beside the one King-sized bed. They no longer need double bed rooms; if it was the only one available, one of them would just crawl in with the other.

Sam opens the trunk, expecting to find a bag full of weapons they need to clean or maybe something they need to refill, but he's a little confused by the tiny burlap bag that sits on top of the stash of weapons and hunting paraphernalia. Something is inside of the bag, but Sam's got no clue; he tries to remember what Dean's case entailed. For the life of him, he's drawing a blank. He feels kind of useless as he wanted to help Dean out but the only thing left was what looked like a bank bag with cash inside; it weighed nothing in his grip. He shuts the trunk lid and walks up the side of the Impala to trek across the sidewalk and reach room 84's door. The minute he ghosts the doorway, Dean is on him.

No, not literally “on” him, but he's grasping Sam in both hands, kissing him rather hard and rough, biting and tangling tongues. Sam kicks the door shut, working on taking off his coat, then his button-down shirt and thermal undershirt until he's at the tank-t. Dean is half-dressed as well, but rather than undress further he's framing Sam's face in between his palms and when he can't catch Sam's lips, he keeps licking the sugary-sweet goop of his face.

“ _Really? Seriously?_ ” Sam laughs lightly, because it's interesting how this turns him on more than the kissing does. He can't even begin to fathom the task Dean would undertake by licking his entire body, because that much sweetness would kill anybody.

“I don't know what it is... at a certain point today, I jus'—I couldn't stop wanting you. Not just you, being you with me. Nah, man, I... I wanted to be 'in' you but not in a sexual kinda way... it was like I wanted to be under your skin.” Dean scrapes his ten fingernails along Sam's bare arms, smiling wistfully as he watches them surround his frame in a loose embrace.

Sam narrows his gaze, looking down into warm green eyes. “You miss'd me... admit it.”

“Yeah, I did. But, I'm tellin' ya... this was way different than jus' me plain-ole wanting you for sexual fulfillment or, you know... when you show me your huge— _muscles_.”

“Dean... i's okay...” Sam nudges faces with Dean, using his nosetip. “... I miss'd you too. I don't know if I can do this for much longer. Hunting without you. It's been, uh, fun... but I feel like we're better together, no matter how many cases we take on.”

Dean closes his eyes because who would've thunk that the rationale one of them wouldn't be Sam. He feels Sam's huge hands slide down his back, sculpting along his lower spine to settle at his waist. He picks up his own arms and begins to work on undoing Sam's button and lowering the zipper. Dean is feeling it again—the churning burn inside of want, like fire... and embers flickering so close they sear him. He wants Sam totally naked and against him. Lucky for him, Sam has been working on his jeans as well, as his hands are now cupping the rounded backside, pushing the combination of jeans and tight boxers down over the bare bottom.

Dean forgot the part where it works better if he's naked too.

Sam back-walks them to the bed; Dean's calves hit against the low frame. He bounces down, grabbing on to Sam's hands for balance and just as he's prepared to kick off the denim, Sam squats down in front of him. In all his naked glory with a stiffening cock jutting forward, Sam uses the gentlest of caresses to take off jeans and then boxer briefs. Dean's touched enough to reach out and settle hands on Sam's head, lifting his face upward for another kiss. This time it's a slow sizzle; it's light touch and tips of tongue. Dean pulls while Sam leans in, letting his arms slide along the mattress on either side of Dean's thighs. As fingers go exploring down the tip of the crack, Dean falls backward, turning slightly to the right which presses him against Sam's chest wall. One finger goes adventuring down the wide split to end up at the puckered entrance and circling the sensitive skin. Dean juts forward, thrusting into Sam's body. He wants the pleasure, but he's not so desperate for the sensation as he is for the feeling he gets— _and gets off to_ —of letting Sam have free reign of his body.

Dean moves; Sam moves, until they are laying up near the pillows and headboard. Dean raises his left leg and hooks it around Sam's lower limbs; the action opens the crack of his ass, exposing his anus to cool air. After shaping the leg that now rests on him, Sam sends his hand back over to stimulate Dean into a frenzy; it doesn't take much. He sucks his own fingers to lubricate and then he quickly inserts the lone digit; Dean gasps and bucks upward, pushing his body against Sam, but then back onto the finger.

Dean crashes his forehead on Sam's lower jaw. “... _fuckme_...”

“I know... I think I'm about to...”

“... no, no... _fuck me_ , for a different reason... like it's how I need to express this—overwhelming feeling I haven't been able to shake...”

Sam draws the finger tip slowly in, then slowly out; the other fingers of that hand are tenderly soothing over the ass cheek, keeping the skin apart. “... what? Is it the case? Did something happen that—?”

Dean silences Sam of his incessant questionnaire with three fingers over his mouth. He hitches his body up further able to loom over Sam's head, circling his right arm to halo above on the pillow. He grabs the underside of Sam's chin to position it just right so he can swoop in and kiss those lips he hasn't tasted in three minutes. He fits his whole mouth over Sam's, sending his hand down along the collar bone and upper chest, sliding toward the flat abdomen until he finds what he's wanted most of all. The feel of Sam's engorged length is almost like his own, except it's lovingly connected to his brother. Fingers are fine, if they're to prepare him for entry, but they aren't what Dean plans to orgasm to. He wants it all; he needs everything Sam has to give him in the short seconds of the first coupling after being apart for almost a whole day. They have time after their showers to savor one another and the moments alone.

Dean licks his palm, taking Sam in hand again. He likes watching those hazel eyes darken, star-bursts of color sharpening depending on what Sam's feeling in the moment. Right now they're closer to brown than they've ever been, but he can see a bit of blue-green wanting to come out, especially when the sunlight streams on them from between the sheers and curtains. He knows when Sam is close to release because he starts to pump into his palm, like he's fucking his hand. Dean rolls them so Sam is on his back and he can straddle over the thick waist, settling on his knees. He rises as Sam cants, palms flat to the muscular chest below him; Sam latches onto his forearms and bucks, his cock rubbing up Dean's backside, over the crack.

Sam's patient because he knows this is Dean's way of finding a comfort zone; anal sex is still a bit painful for him or it's the fact that he had no idea that his little brother wasn't so “little” anymore. “I don't mind if we just—it doesn't have to be this way all the time, as long as we come together or one after the other.”

Dean is shaking his head in refusal. He knows the only satiation he'll get, which will let him leave Sam alone for awhile, will be if there's penetration. And right now the only kind he wants is attached to Sam. He lets his hands crawl up Sam's chest to brush over his shoulders and then settle as fists on the mattress and some of the pillow; his ass lifts up and Sam's length slips underneath, between his legs to try and fit between the split of the cheeks.

“We really should use more lube.” Sam tries to offer easy “outs” or at least make the moment less stressful, but Dean seems determined to do this “his way” or no way.

Dean opens his eyes, shaking his head again as he positions his bottom directly at the tip of the heated stiffness and then lowers himself in baby steps. The girth is what kills him, at first, because he doesn't mind the length. In fact, he loves the extra inches as they tend to reach soft spots inside of him he never knew he had. As he sinks lower and lower onto Sam's cock, he collapses onto the chest beneath him and buries his head in Sam's neck and pillow, pushing against the dark-brown hair.

Sam settles his hands on Dean's thighs, smoothing the front and backs of his fingers over bare skin. He can feel Dean actually quaking from the inside out. It's not a nervous quiver, but it shows how affected he can be by his own sexual fulfillment. It so much more different with women—quick foreplay, some cunnilingus (if they're lucky) and then he's inside them pumping and thrusting away. If he ever had the thought of fucking another man, he knew he would've been a “Top”. It's only with Sam that he wants to “Bottom” and craves it more and more. It's not the weird psycho-babble vocabulary of those in control in the real world often taking on submissive roles in the bedroom. So _not_ true.

Dean can control from the bottom just as well from the top position, it's just this way he can sense “Sam” better— _his Sammy_. He'll take anything Sam wants to give him, because he knows he deserves it and he needs it. The feeling, not the obvious underneath punishment. He wants to feel Sam's power, be under his spell and feel his hands and caresses; Sam's oddly gentle and tender as a lover which belies who the world thinks he is or who they fear he will become. Dean knows now, better than he's ever had before. Sam won't succumb without true loss or grief, a desperation where it is the be-all-end-all answer to the only way out. Sam will stay Sam because he won't allow the demon-side of him to win. He'll use it to his advantage but he won't abuse it to a point where it overtakes him and brings about the end of the world.

Dean had doubts before; from time to time, he still has them, but once he's with Sam... he _knows_. He's stopped second guessing his brother's actions and reasons; Sam's the one steering this ship and he'll loyally follow him anywhere. He also stopped talking to him like he's a little kid with no common sense, telling him what he'll be and having those low expectations that Sam will roll over and die, allowing those who want to use him to succeed. Dean has stopped it all, because there's an optimism inside of him that becomes unleashed, where he finds faith and hope again, where he starts to believe they can make it out of this mess and go back to a normal life—whatever that means. Hell, the fact he wants to vacation is a first step for him. He's always called it something else—like “driving 'til the road ends”, never an actual “family” word.

Sam widens his legs, bracing for the point where he can plant his feet on the bed and thrust upward in a frenzy into the intensely heated cavity. But Dean hasn't moved his body yet, he's still trying to accommodate himself to the feel of his inner walls stretching beyond their limits. Sam starts to move slowly, the tip of his cock poking at the exact spot that makes Dean cry out, then shiver. He already notices it's going to be one of those times where he'll have to take over. Sam gladly assumes the role, never minding when he can watch Dean fall apart in his arms as long as it's _his_ arms that hold his brother as he crumbles to pieces. With an arm secure at Dean's back, Sam flips them once more; Dean lets out a satisfied sigh and stretches out limbs he'd been contracting inward with tension.

Dean is thankful for the swift change; he knew if he waited long enough, Sam would rescue him. He always does, in and out of bed. Arm still around him and a hand cupping the left hip, Sam begins to thrust in a concentrated rhythm. He'll watch Dean to know when it's time to speed up and push deeper. Dean's limbs have all gone limp, but his legs are raised and locked around the backs of Sam's thighs; he'll move his arms in a minute, he simply wants to revel in the sensation a little longer.

Dean beings to moan and move his head on the pillow, feeling the inner build-up of his orgasm; he knows it'll be painful and agonizing, but it's a good feeling for him. It tells him he's still alive and kicking. The hand that was on his hip and waist has now been brought up to cup his face, so he tilts into the palm, kissing the skin. Sam leans in to kiss along the neck, coming up the jawline to play around the flat of the cheek before he finds the mouth as Dean turns his head back around. With each new thrust, their tongues duel. Dean draws up his arms, bending at the elbows to clench hands over Sam's shoulders; he knows that he needs to hold onto Sam once the tempo increases. Nails beds embed in skin, leaving half-moon marks, but Sam doesn't feel the pain they leave; he's too focused on Dean, watching and tending to his whims.

Dean moves with counter-thrusts, widening the spread of his legs and lifting his backside off the mattress. It's time to go deeper, as deep as Sam can go. Planting his knees to the bed, Sam pushes his brow against Dean's face as he starts to speed up his momentum, pelvis to pelvis; they're connecting on a whole different level of bonding. Sam senses the burn in his gut, the start of his orgasm and he knows that it'll be a huge load he releases this time; he doesn't want to leave in order to ejaculate, he never does. He's got this weird need to “claim” Dean with his seed, even though he knows it doesn't last, only in his own head. Dean hasn't wanted him to come inside him since they started having sex. It's a fantasy Sam has that he wishes to fulfill one day. For now, he's fine with making Dean comfortable.

Dean arcs off the bed at a singular moment of pleasure— _like a bright spark of bliss_ —and then falls back down to shape his hands along Sam's body in order to grab him around the ass cheeks and direct him into the pace change. “... _harder_... _faster_...”

Sam now has to brace his hands on the bed, along with his knees, and just lunges forward as deep and as fast as he can. He feels the rise of the euphoria, the moment when he knows he'll shoot semen, probably sloppily as he sometimes can loose control when he comes. Clenching his teeth, bottling in his need to cry out his own pleasure, he must keep his mind clear to know when to pull out. But just as he's preparing to slide down a hand to physically grab himself, he realizes Dean's hands haven't moved once; they keep their pressure on his bottom as if they want more and more of whatever he had to release out of his body. He settles his forearms beside Dean's head on the pillow, slowing down his motions as he connects hazel eyes with green. “... you sure?...”

Dean's speechless, so he nods an answer, only able to grunt and moan, muttering obscenities under breath to the ecstasy he's about to feel. It's been a tiny fantasy of his to let Sam come inside him— _claim him_ —take full possession of him. He doesn't know how to ask other than just making it a spur-of-the-moment decision. He knows when he feels the spurt of semen fill him, he'll mostly likely release his own orgasm. He's actually jacked off to that fantasy quite a few times now.

As the thrusts increase again, Sam bends low to sneak kisses; he loves Dean's mouth, those full lips. He's watched them around his cock a few times, but he likes kissing them the most. Dean's a good kisser; Sam already kind of knew that he was simply from those times Dean would tend to his boo-boos as a kid: the warmth of the lips, the tenderness of their touch against his cold skin. The feeling would linger because Dean often lingered once the healing kiss was over; he'd blow a “raspberry” or hum words to vibrate in a tickling manner. Sam deepened their kiss, turning his head a severe direction at the memory of Dean at that age, wondering if this kind of idea of their relationship was possible back then.

One of Dean's hands has fit around his own cock, jerking himself as he rests his palm against Sam's chest above him. At the very second Sam gives one final thrust, Dean clenches his inner walls, beginning to milk the length invading his body so eloquently, like it always “fit”. The harder he strokes, the closer he reaches orgasm and then as Sam is shooting his last few drops, caking the rectum, Dean is tugging roughly on his cock, directing the come to shoot over his chest— _and, hopefully,_ ** _only_** _his chest_ —as he orgasms not once but three times from the sensation of Sam's slow thrusting and the feel of him inside, stirring the semen around and making the friction they create so passionate.

Dean lowers his legs on another heavy sigh, looking down at Sam who has collapsed onto his chest, laying lower and inch-by-slow-inch slipping out of his body. He wished Sam had stayed inside him, if only for ten or fifteen more minutes. Now they both are sweaty, sticky... Dean is covered a little in his own semen and the sugary-stickiness that was on Sam. It's time for that shower, even though neither want to get out of bed, so drained and lost in one another, they could sleep for hours.

Sam goes upright first, rolling away and off the bed. He drags over their bags to rifle through the one that's his for underwear, a shirt and some pants. Dean watches decadently from the bed as he never lets his eyes drop lower than Sam's waist; he's never cared about looking at his brother's dick, doesn't even care that it was just inside him giving him an unmatched pleasure he's never found elsewhere. It's “Sam” he loves to watch: the hair, the facial expressions and ticks, the play of strong muscles and the way he flexes without realizing it. When Sam turns around, then Dean takes in the whole package, because that is one incredible ass and those legs... they're built like a stallion's. When had Sammy filled-out this much is beyond him. But he'll take it, because it's all his, no one else's.

Dean doesn't care to “prepare” for his shower, he simply gets off the bed and walks into the bathroom. Sam stares on in shock, not really miffed but a little hurt. His arms are full of clothes and toiletries, yet Dean just waltzes in like he doesn't care. The old Sam would've pouted and shuffled his feet, ready for a verbal sparring once Dean strolled out of the door. With the newfound intimacy, Sam felt it was normal for him to wander into the bathroom, place his clothes on the bare towel rack and set his shaving kit on the back of the freestanding sink. Just as you please, he opens the shower door and bumps front to back with Dean, shoving him out of the line of the shower head.

“Hey!” Dean exclaims as shampoo suds nearly blind his eyes. Where before he may have rejected he and Sam sharing showers, now it wasn't such a terrible idea. He pushed Sam out of the way so he can, at least, wash off the suds and stop his eyes from burning out of the sockets. What he doesn't expect is Sam moving out of his way, but then using his hulking hands to help out.

Sam rubs over the top of Dean's hair, flattening and then spiking the shorn locks. He pulls the shower nozzle off the metal rest and directs the flow of water to help wash off the places along Dean's back that cannot be seen or reached. His palm remains over Dean's bottom, cupping the underneath to check for any sign of soreness. “You okay?”

Dean gives him a strange look of confusion. “Yeah... why wouldn't I be?” He knows why Sam is asking but he won't tell him how he really feels, only because he wants that sensation to remain so he knows what went on. It's why he doesn't mind wounds inflicted on him during cases; a sharp reminder of what his life is like. It used to remind him of what _not_ to do, but what's done to him by Sam is honestly what he _doesn't_ want to stop doing. He can't stop needing Sam, needing the closeness they share now. It doesn't smear their brotherly affections, it highlights them and makes it endless and ever-changing. “All right... your turn, Gargantua.” He's stunned by how, even in bare feet, Sam towers over him, looming like Lurch, from The Addams Family. It's an odd comforting sight and it continues to make him feel petite and rather womanly. He not sure if he's the “chick” in this thing or what, but he doesn't mind the place he keeps by Sam's side. Dean has always been both mother and father to Sam, so nothing is truly different—except the sex.

Once the shower head is placed back on the hook, Dean pulls down the shampoo bottle. If Sam bends low for a minute, he can soap up those long strands. Either the shower stall is small or Sam has grown a few feet because he can almost use the shower nozzle as a microphone, with some adjustments. Sam is soaping up the washcloth to get down-and-gritty with his whole body. The thick goop that had splattered over him was hardening in a way that made it painful to stretch his skin. Hopefully, it would all wash off. Dean's theory of “the hotter, the better” seemed to work, but left red patches on his skin where he was most sensitive.

Dean steps out for a minute to grab another washcloth and to see if Sam had some kind liquid body soap to aide in the mission to clean Sam off all that ghostly puke. While Sam works on his upper body, Dean squats as best he can to work on lower limbs and feet. It's worrisome that the water looks “green-ish”... like slime. On Sam's skin, it appeared translucent; there must be some kind of chemical reaction going on with water. It was kind of neat, kind of awesome and somewhat scary. Thank God, since once Sam was done with his chest and lower back he went on to wash out his hair and then use the conditioner; he didn't look down once to the tiled flooring. Dean never bothered with conditioner, but he knew if Sam didn't use some kind of control for his lengthy locks then he'd have a tragic case of bed-head or the “frizzies”.

Grabbing the towel he threw over the wall, Dean climbs out first. He wanders over to the shelf to pull down a towel for Sam, but he knows his brother likes to stay longer under the spray; he won't disturb his moment of peace and relief. Maybe it was a good thing that he didn't have that case to work on. He wanders out of the bathroom, leaving the door partly shut, to make his way over to his bag. He's not gonna dress in full clothes; it feels like they're in for the night and probably most of the morning. Dean finds a gray t-shirt and a nice pair of regular boxers; it doesn't matter how he's dressed, because it will all come off him shortly.

Sam stays in the shower a little longer to actually collect himself. He knows that sooner or later, he will have to tell Dean every gory, gloomy detail of his hunt— _a mere haunting_ —but not any plain old haunting as it was someone who knew Mary Winchester. That... was a minor detail left out of the request. The weirdest, yet most fascinating thing that happened was that Mary actually made a brief appearance. Not in her young form, the one that Sam had stitched in his heart and memory, but the older Mary who had had her life cut way-too short. Sam never knew which one to be more comfortable by—what Mom could be or what she had become. He actually preferred neither since he had no memory of her, only a blurry vision hanging over his crib. That could've been Dad too; babies never saw colors or faces at that age—at least, _he_ hadn't.

Even though he had grown up with Dad, seeing him every day for eighteen years, then briefly for a time only to lose him to Hell and good ole Yellow Eyes, Sam didn't want to see John ever again, even in a mist or through a different vessel. He wanted to move on and heal; he didn't want to rewind and ruminate to only become sadder. Dean still had those freakish desires to see Mom and Dad “one last time”, but even when there was a last time, he still wanted one more. Sam was attempting to cure Dean of that want, so he could move on and heal too. Sam wasn't sure he should let Dean know he saw Mary, because that might make Dean jealous and wishful, hopeful that Mary was around them and would visit.

Grabbing the towel to dry himself off and wrap the material around his waist, Sam walks over to the sink and turns on the faucet. He takes out his toothpaste and tooth brush and begins to clean his teeth and whole mouth; he didn't want to take the chance he's gotten any of that goop in his saliva. He had a sweet tooth as well, but he doubted that one taste of that stuff would've been enough—look what it almost did to Dean. By this time, the steam has cleared and the fog has lifted off the mirror, so he's able to look at his face and judge whether he shaves now or in the morning; it was probably best in the morning. Taking off the towel and picking out his underwear, he gets dressed in his light sleepwear as fast as he can. With the towel draped over his shoulder, he strolls out of the bathroom to find Dean in bed. Not asleep, but under covers and on his side and stomach, with his hand tucked under a pillow below his head.

“You goin' to sleep?” Sam thought they'd stay up to talk, compare notes.

“Dude... you wore me out.”

Sam sits on the bed, putting away his shaving kit. “I asked you if you were okay.”

“And I'm _damn_ fine. That's not the problem... I'm jus'—I already told you I've been feeling these odd things while on the case. Like more intense than normal feelings should be.”

“Well... tell me what you did.”

“Everything?”

“Not every tiny detail, but whatever you think might be relevant to why you could be so listless and exhausted.”

“I climbed a mountain. It wasn't, like, a really- _real_ mountain, like Everest or nothin'... but I hiked it.”

“That could be why.”

“But... we rested. It was relaxing and not much of an incline or a height reached to the top. It was rather... _boring_.”

“A cave, though. You said the item you had to find was in a cave.”

“Eh, I don't even know if it was a 'cave' as much as erosion of rock an' shit just got put there because of Mother Nature. It was dark like a cave and chilly like a cave—like those bat caves we saw in New Mexico.

“Dean...”

“Okay, okay... I was feeling irregular before the cave, but after...”

“So it all leads to Pre-Cave Dean to Post-Cave Dean.”

“Please don't poke fun at me.”

“I'm not. I'm trying to reiterate important facts. It's you who feels ashamed of what you did. Get the fuck over it.” Sam's eyes travel toward the burlap bag on the chair. “So... is it cool, or awesome? This item you had to search for?”

“I don't know. My two guys I was with... the interpreter and then the village people guy... they kind of went in and—I don't know—they put the thing in the bag and then just tossed it to me. They told me not to open the ties until I could put it in the rightful owner's hand.”

“So you don't even know what it is you were after?”

“It felt spiritual or... at least profoundly important to the town. It used to be privately inhabited by a tribe, but now the 'white man'— _although he kept calling me 'chalk man'_ —took over and well, think of what we've done to other Native Americans.”

“Jesus... and when, exactly, are you supposed to give this bag to the 'rightful owner'?”

“I don't know. He supposed to _find_ me.”

“How's he do _that_?”

“Sam...”

“Dean... this isn't like you. You walked in blindly, unprepared and willing to do whatever they told you to do—no questions asked. What's wrong with you?”

“I don't know. Do you think—? Should we try to look in the bag, see what the hell the mystery is about?”

“I'm not sure we should. Not if it's spiritual. There might be some kind of hex or curse linked to it. I have enough problems of my own to deal with.”

“But maybe that's just it.”

“What?'

“You. You're already half-demon, so it wouldn't be like it'd make you full-on demon or Super-Ultra-Mega-Bitch-Demon.”

“Dean... I am a little suspect of you being so willing to put myself in the line of danger.”

“It's a bag, with something in it. What evil force could it unleash?”

“With the life we lead and the things we've seen, I don't dare to find out.”

“How 'bout if I...?”

“No. You had it in the trunk, but you forgot about it. Maybe I should put it back there, you'll forget it again.”

“But that rightful owner might show up. I don't want to look like a complete fool.”

Sam's not sure his wires are crossing correctly in his mind. “You're ready for bed. I don't see you being prepared for any kind of company on their way over.”

Dean shakes off the covers to run over and grab a pair of clean jeans. “Happy now?” He tucks them under his pillow so he can throw them on his body to make himself look half-way respectable.

“You're _really_ worrying me.” Sam is being serious. He doesn't know if he should take the blame or find guilt to place elsewhere. “Go to sleep.” He goes to the window to look out at what's close around them. “I see a diner across the way. I'll go, get us a few burgers and drinks. If you're awake, I want you to eat. If you're not, I won't be hurt—I'll let you sleep for an hour, but then I'm waking you up so you can get some food in you.” He shakes his head with concern, mumbling to himself. “—maybe you're dehydrated...”

Dean smirks ruefully, like he wants to be a bad boy and be properly punished. He dives under covers, tucking himself under the hemline. “... I've just been thoroughly fucked, is what's wrong with me...”

“mmm...” Sam disagrees with the shake of his head. “... nah, it's something that happened before you ever got here. It had to have happened when you entered that cave.” He looks over at Dean to ask him another question to find him out like a light. “—jesus, man...” Sam takes a seat at the table, having brought over his knapsack with Dad's journal and his laptop. He thinks about Dean's birthday coming up, maybe buying him a Netbook; he knows Dean won't use it except to search for porn, but he wants Dean to have one so they don't have to share his. He's pretty sure he might have to run a “virus scan”; the system been lagging lately and it almost crashed on him last night.

As he waits for his system to boot up, Sam leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest and his eyes staring at what little he can see of Dean's head, buried under sheets and comforter. He smirks lightly, blowing spurts of air out of his nostrils at the adorable way Dean hibernates when he sleeps. Sam almost can't wait to finish logging in his notes and writing in Dad's journal, just so he can climb into bed beside Dean. He types too fast and misspells a few words, words he uses everyday... it's the kind of sign that says how much he loves being with his brother, every minute of the day.

 **~~ &&~~&&~~**

Dean awakens from some far away subconscious kick-in-the-pants invading his dreams. Dreams are supposed to be peaceful havens from reality, but when he dreams they tend to quickly turn into nightmares. It's when he opens his eyes to consciousness that he actually feels any sense of peace. He didn't before; he means “before” this intimacy with Sam. Nothing has changed of their outer-world; the Big Baddies still trail behind them, hot on their asses, but now Dean feels secure and protected by the one Biggest Baddie of them all. Lucky for him, Sam happens to be on his side.

He's laying on his stomach, both arms tucked under his pillow and his face is turned away from the other side of the huge mattress. He flips his head to peer over his right arm to find Sam laying above covers; he's turned on his right side to face Dean, whenever he wakes. There's a gentle hand on Dean's back, flat to his t-shirt and warm skin as the hem of the covers has dipped low enough to expose Dean's upper body; he moves around a lot in troubled sleep. He knows if he wakes up with Sam's hand on him, then he knows that sometime during the night he must've had a fit or made a noise; Sam finds that all that is needed is a hand on Dean's back, soothing him in slumber. It's as if his touch were magic; Dean knows that's crazy, but he has experienced Sam's power of touch, while awake... so there's _that_.

Dean doesn't want to get up, but he's feeling the need to pee. As he slides out of bed with an adept ease—Sam's hand simply dropping gently to the bed—he wanders over to check out the fact that Sam has done as promised and there is a bag of greasy burgers and super-sized waffle fries with a butt-load of ketchup packets. _Damn_ , Dean shakes his head with some shock because it still moves him in weird little ways how deftly Sam knows him so well; it's like they think from the same brain. He stands there and unravels the silver wrapper from around the first burger, almost salivating when he sees that the meat has been shaped by real hands, not a frozen flattened meat-like product from a fast food place. There's fresh lettuce and tomato, rings of onions hanging off under the bread; Dean takes a sip of the soda through the straw, licking his lips wet. _Christ_ , now he really has to go take a piss.

He does a quick shuffle to pull out the waffle fries and sets them on the folded out wrapper—being used like a place-mat—and dumps out the rest of the ketchup packets. Dean makes a mad dash into the bathroom, not even bothering to shut the door. Why bother? It's not like he has to keep hiding from Sam anymore. He pops up the toilet seat— _lid and seat-ring_ —then pulls out his dick through the open fly of his boxers. Almost immediately, he's shooting a straight stream of urine into the center of the bowl, causing a ricochet of water droplets that pelt the bare skin on his thighs. He's not expecting the sensation, so it makes him jolt off-to-the-side and miss the toilet, dripping a few splots of piss on the porcelain rim and the tiled floor.

“Oh, Jesus Almighty!” Dean hops one way backward then moves forward again as he tries to stop his bladder to hold it for him to get settled. Now he knows it's one of those weird-shaped cheap toilets he has to “aim” into or constantly be drenched with toilet water, that could be laced with his own urine— _lovely_. As he finishes, shaking off the last few drops, he stuffs himself back into the boxers and hits the silver lever to flush. He quickly meanders over to grab another washcloth, turning on the faucets to achieve a lukewarm temperature. He uses the cheap motel hand soap bar and wets the material so he can scrub at his thighs, then clean his hands thoroughly.

While he's in the bathroom, he notices that lights are turning on behind him so it must be Sam waking up and getting out of bed. Dean's a bit stunned when he doesn't hear Sam call out to him or when he doesn't see Sam in the mirror fill the doorway with his massive frame. It's almost disconcerting, because it's second nature for Sam to trail after Dean and be all in his business, even if he's half awake. Once he dries off his hands and walks toward the door to turn off the over-head light, he starts speaking almost instantly... “So, hey... I was thinkin' that we'd—” He stops right where the doorway is, one foot out on the carpet, one foot still on the tiles.

Sam is out of bed all right, but there's _something_ holding him by the throat against a wall. His hands are clawing at the “arm” or “claw-hand”... as Dean's gaze is alert and wandering the scope of the room.

“... _talk to me, sammy_...” Dean deeply whispers out under breath so as not to alarm _whatever's_ got Sam pinned to the wall. He always calls Sam “Sammy” when they're in dire straits; it's been not only a comfort for Sam, but one for Dean to secure his focus on one thing—saving his brother.

Sam is unable to speak clearly, but he manages to squeeze his eyes open and shut. His face turns red as he makes strangled noises and manages to get the arm off his windpipe long enough to still keep a grip on whatever entity has entered the room. “Dean... get in—the bathroom—lock the door...” He's not being self-righteous, like he's the only one who can defeat this creature. Sam doesn't know how he knows or feels this creature around him, but he'll keep a hold on it as long as he can before it attempts to reach his brother.

This thing was here for one thing and one thing only—Dean Winchester; the name was sounding like a mantra inside the creature's head.

Dean refuses to hide behind the door or “lock” himself behind any door when he knows Sam's life is in jeopardy. So he thinks he might know of a way to help Sam; Dean's intrigued by Sam's actions, because it's almost as if he's gained extra-sensory perception to what has entered their motel room. Dean grabs the coverlet at the end of the bed and throws it toward Sam, who picks it up and manages to go from holding an upper limp— _possible arm_ —to throwing the blanket over the huge frame and snatching at a lower limb— _possibly a leg, or maybe around the “ankle”_.

Dean knows he hasn't got anything in the room, from the Impala, that he can use to help Sam with; he has to learn to be patient and let Sam deal with the situation, for now, as he's the only one who can “see” whatever the fuck it is. Sam spread-eagles his body, arms going up and feet stretching down to surround the form beneath. It bucks him upward, like riding a bucking bronco, and then suddenly Sam is left flat to the thin carpeting. Both of them go silent and still, but then Sam moves upright onto his hands, not sure what he did or what happened.

“Jesus, man... what the ever-lovin' fuck...” Dean already knows there won't be an easy explanation.

“Not now, Dean.” Sam's trying to breath evenly through nostrils; his temper reached a boiling point. “I think it's over.” _For now._ He's pissed about being woken up so cruelly and forced to attempt figuring out what was leftover from either of their cases that has followed them. He couldn't help that his mind went immediately to the “bag” Dean brought with him. He flips portions of the coverlet up to make sure whatever _being_ had attacked him—he had lied and told the “thing” that _he_ was “Dean Winchester”—was no where in sight. Sam still doesn't know how he did it—the cerebral discussion that had taken place in his head.

The rouse had been lifted when Dean came out of the bathroom and called him “Sammy”. At least the _being_ wasn't totally stupid; it was able to process the differences between two corporeal human forms.

Dean watches Sam crawl along the floor, then thinks he needs help getting off his knees. “Here let me...” But Sam didn't need help; he's checking the floor on the way to the chair where the stuffed burlap bag sits innocently on the cushion, leaning toward the back of the chair.

Sam snatches the bag, sits on the floor on top of the coverlet (just in case this _being_ is still “somewhere” beneath him) and looks the material of the bag over. There's no printing of label, not much of anything to give away what's inside. By this time, Dean is next to him; he's on his knees at the same level as Sam.

Dean doesn't want to be rude but it was _his_ find and _his_ case. Those two dudes that gave him the bag have oddly given him a responsibility. “Uhm... maybe **I** should open it.”

Sam shakes his head before he speaks. “Nah... I'm not taking that chance that it could harm you.” Even though it was foolish to think it could, he's not taking the chance the item can curse the person opening the bag or just by looking at it.

Dean tries to grab for Sam's wrist, but he's too swift in unknotting the ties and then looking inside. Sam has it balanced between his thighs; he's pulling the edges of the bag apart and peeks. The dark eyebrows are frowning and switching positions of going up and down, alternating. Sam isn't speaking quick enough for Dean, who attempts to make a grab for the bag. “ _What_?” He comments on the way Sam pulled it back from him and hides it behind his back. “ _Really_? Is _that_ gonna be how we do _this_?” It feels like a childish game they used to play as kids.

Sam slowly shakes his head from side-to-side, keeping the bag out of reach and holding a seriousness to his face he'll try not to let too many emotions seep out of. “Is it _that_ important for you to know what it is?”

“Uh, yeah... 'cuz it just tried to fuckin' kill you!” Dean plans on tickling, probably advancing to outright tactics of hands on private parts: a nipple or maybe the groin area. He falls over Sam's body, across his lap and doesn't know how inept he's become as Sam was able to switch hands without him realizing it. Now he's face-forward over Sam's body and he knows he's “being a bad boy”. If Sam were kinky in any way, he'd take advantage of this moment and use it to... _but he doesn't_. He shoves Dean off his body, then moves to stand and walk to another part of the room.

There's a low counter that doesn't seem purposeful at all in the design of the room, but Sam uses it to set the bag on the surface. He senses Dean having gotten up off the floor and sees his brother's form in his periphery approaching him on the right. Sam adjusts the object to face them both and tugs down the edges of the bag to show Dean what he was “holding” for this “rightful owner”. Right away, Sam knew what he was looking at, but for Dean it didn't register in his head until Sam dropped the last few inches of the burlap off the item.

Green eyes widened in shock because he doesn't know how he couldn't have “felt” that shape around the bag. “A totem?”

“Close. I think it's a fertility god statue.”

“Well, obviously.” Dean points his index finger in mid-air to show the elongated penal shape jutting out from the miniature sculpted form. “But... wha—?” He's not sure he understands why it's of such great importance that the two dudes that had been with him had tossed it toward him and then now... now some invisible creature had tried to choke Sam's last breath out. He crosses his arms and then grabs on his biceps, his brow wrinkling in confusion. “I guess that explains a _few_ things.”

Sam nods his head in agreement. “It also explains why you were so—” He rolls his hand off his chest to try and find words to express what Dean had been “feeling” all day. Sam wasn't sure Dean wanted to know that the fertility god may have had a hand in his heightened sense of sexuality.

“What?” Dean wasn't sure what Sam meant to convey, which didn't matter as there was a knock at their motel room door.

Both of them went still, not even thinking about breathing. To Dean, it sounds like a typical knock of a night manager come to check on his guests; to Sam, it sounds like a booming pounding of _something_ wanting to gain entrance—like it can't come in unless invited.

Dean leans forward a bit. His jaws hits low on Sam's right biceps. “I have a sinking feeling that _shouldn't_ be answered.”

Sam tries to clear his clogged throat quietly, then shakes his head. “I wouldn't, because it's not _what_ we think it is.”

“What do we think it is?”

“— _human_ —”

“— _ohhh, fuck!_...” Dean simply wants one night of peace and quiet. He should've never taken that bag and just dropped it in the cave.

Sam keeps his hands on the surface of the counter as he turns his head to the right to look down at Dean as the second round of knocking starts. “Luckily, I don't think it wants either of us.” He moves his left hand along the ledge, letting his fingers caress over the fertility god sculpture. “I think it wants _this_.”

“Uhm, so why don't we hand it over... easy-peasy...”

“Well, because I suspect the whole reason you were given the bag, instead of the other two men keeping it, was that _you_ would know better _who_ to give it to.”

“This— _rightful person_...” Dean is starting to comprehend a little more of his predicament.

“Exactly.” Sam switches his head to the left and tries to look over his shoulder toward the window flanking the door. He sees shadowy shapes flowing back and forth, but that could be _anything_. “I got the feeling that Casper isn't a good candidate.”

Dean softly snorts out a chuckle. It's been weird how off-n-on lately Sam will make these witty pop-culture references to things, just like he usually does. He considers it the fact that they've been closer than ever and have pretty much become one person. “Is that _it—_ out there?”

“I think so. It's not a typical 'knocking' sound I hear.”

 _Christ!_ Dean wants to lean weakly on Sam's back; in fact, he plans on doing that once they're alone and they've gotten rid of this freaky cursed totem. “What do you want to do?”

“Wait another minute...”

And as that word ends on Sam's lips, the window and door breaks apart, pieces of wood flying everywhere and shards of glass exploding, whatever was pounding on the door was tired of waiting, losing precious time.

Dean went to cover Sam, but Sam was larger and more spry, being able to plaster Dean against the wall and use his own body to block an attack—back to chest. In his mind, Dean keeps saying, “ _nonononono_ ” because he hates it when Sam is too willing to sacrifice his life in order to save him. Granted, it was exactly what Dean would do for Sam, but... nah, it just didn't sit right with Dean.

“Let me up.” Dean fidgets underneath Sam, but Sam is too strong for him as he's planted his bare feet on the carpet and uses them as leverage to form his body like a wall around Dean's smaller frame.

“No.” One word, final answer. Sam pushes his back against Dean's front and he watches the eerie quiet outdoors where their door and window used to be; it appears like some of the wall is gone too.

Dean thought it was in response to his request but when he's able to curl his body around to look at Sam's face... his eyes shut tight and his brow severely in a frown... he realizes Sam wasn't talking to him. Sam is, somehow, conversing with _whatever_ is outside. _Holy Christ!_ There's was no way for Dean to own up on the case if the _things_ wanting possession of the item weren't going to be cooperative with _him_. The only thing he feels he can do is “ground” Sam, so he sends his right arm over the broad shoulder and down the chest. His fingers curl about the left flank, holding tightly. There's is no way he's letting go. Dean feels useless and foolish; he can't see or hear anything and yet... Sam sees and hears everything... it's frustrating and really annoying.

He brings Sam closer to his chest, mouth toward an ear. “... _talk to me, sammy_...” He hates being left out.

Sam loosens the fierceness of his frown, licking his lips. “... even if you gave over the bag... you're supposed to die... I'm not letting _that_ happen...” There's a fierce growl under Sam's tone that tells Dean he's fighting for him inside his mind with this _thing._

It's not exactly how Dean likes to do handle these moments; he thinks it's a bitch move to completely avoid showing a “real” face in a confrontation, whether it be verbal or physical. “... _whoa, whoa, whoa_...” Dean didn't sign up for _that_ much of a sacrifice. “... so what is _it_ saying... wha's goin' on?...”

“There's a second part to this fertility god. It thinks we know where it is or that we're hiding it.”

“Tell it I only got—”

“I know, Dean... what do you think I'm doing?” Sam sounds a little annoyed as he's having to have two conversations at once.

“Well, nothing. I can't hear a thing... or see much...”

At that point, Sam reaches up an arm, stretched out to its extreme and the five fingers are spread wide as he does some kind of chanting. A few minutes after the lyrical words, there's a tear in the air, letting bright white light through and then suddenly Dean sees the creature's form that Sam's been dealing with. He wants to be let up; if it's a ghost-form, maybe he can salt and burn it.

But then something low growls out of Sam as he keeps chanting and bringing out the entity that won't go away. “... I got this, Dean...”

And sure enough, as Sam slowly forms his hand into a fist, the ghost-like creature starts to scream and screech as it's being sucked into the palm of Sam's hand. It's actually the most amazing mind-fuck Dean's ever had not being high or drunk.

“ ** _Get the bag, Dean! Now!_** ” Sam moves off of Dean to stand and wills himself to plant his bare feet flat to the floor and balanced.

Dean thinks Sam can only mean _one bag_ , so he takes out the fertility god and throws the burlap to Sam. Sam catches it with his other hand and shoves his formed-fist that's been shooting light between the spaces of fingers. The ties on the bag are pulled tightly and then... **nothing**...

“I think they cursed or blessed the bag.” Sam holds the bag in his hand and then looks over at Dean. “It's not the fertility God they wanted...” He tosses the bag up in the air in one hand, as if there's something inside. There hasn't been movement since Sam re-tied the burlap.

Dean slowly nods his head as he places hands on hips to even his breathing. “... uh, yeah, of course... they drew him out with the, uh... totem...” It feels like a fog has lifted over his head that he's been in all day. And it's only then that his mind starts to wrap around what he had felt when holding that bag. The fertility god didn't literally mean “fertileness” but it could also mean “manliness” or “prowess”... to hold an extreme power sexually. He slaps a hand over the side of his face, rubbing away weariness. “Okay, so—great... fan-tab-ulous...” Dean can't fathom he could've been that weakened to succumb to some damn fertility god's “control”. “... now what do we do?”

A solid knock pounds on the door and both Sam and Dean look over to notice that their motel room is back to looking pristine and clean; there was no glass or wood anywhere. Everything was intact, like nothing ever happened.

“I guess we answer the door.” Sam grumbles as he immediately heads to the doorway and turns the doorknob. He sees the middle-aged jovial man standing there, looking like an adventurer in his own right. The stranger opens his mouth to say a greeting but Sam cuts him off. “Save it!” He tosses the bag at the guy, then turns to Dean. “Hand me the totem.”

Dean gladly walks over to snatch the item, tossing it to Sam. He watches as his brother looks down at the fertility god and then shoves _that_ into the innocent guy's chest. Dean chokes on a laugh because Sam looks volcanically pissed enough to tell the rich explorer where he could shove that totem, but he catches how rude that might seem and promptly coughs.

“Take it. Take everything. You're welcome and... oh, yeah... go fuck yourself...” Sam slams the door in the guy's face. He doesn't want to hear anymore diatribes or “ _this is why I had to do this_ ” stories. He's tired of it; he's tired of _all_ of it. Those rich philanthropic jackasses got what they wanted, end of story. They screwed with the Winchesters... they put Dean's life in jeopardy... they messed with Sam; there are no do-overs.

“Jesus, man... wha—?” Right this second, Dean can't help but feel jealous of Sam. Dean's been wanting to react that way for years. “Well... I guess we cross those people off our list for return customers.”

Sam's not ready for jokes or teases. He moves to the window to shove apart the curtains and stares at the guy as he wanders back to his car in a daze. Apparently, the stranger wasn't alone, but that didn't matter to Sam. These kind of people never work just for themselves.

Sam doesn't know when he'll have the guts to tell Dean that he managed to save him several times in those few minutes. He's unsettled because he had to tap into his demon-half in order to seek revenge and win against the invisible creature. Sam is keeping a short tabulation of faces who like to use and abuse his talents. He hopes that whatever those men needed, they got; he can't bother to muster the emotion to care. He has no more time for selfish people who find out about the Winchesters and use them to their advantage.

Dean steps up to Sam at the window and watches out the glass over the wide shoulder. “Should I go out there an—” It's humorous to him that he feels bad, because this is where Sam would typically be after one of his bad attitude rages.

“You leave this room, you find another one to stay in... or sleep in the Impala.” Sam wishes Dean was less agreeable to “be nice”, especially when those “rightful owners” had been so willing to sacrifice _his very life_.

Dean goes still and stops trying to smile as he realizes how serious this was and Sam kept it all inside. “It was _my soul_ , wasn't it? Not that I'd die, but that my soul was up for grabs?”

“Dean, not now.” Sam doesn't want to talk about it; it's old news. He's still feeling the aftereffects of his demon-side and he needs to ground himself back down to Earth.

Dean closes the curtains and yanks on Sam's arm. “All right... now that it's really all over, you're coming back to bed and getting some real sleep... or, we could do— _whatever_...” He plops down on his side of the King-sized mattress, thinking that Sam would just easily slide on the bed next to him, stretching out his long frame. But as he takes a seat, Sam squats in front of him, between his legs, arms are planted on either side of him on the mattress. Dean can't take the sinister “staring” Sam does sometimes. “What?” He averts his head, scratching along his left arm.

Even though his features are stiff and stoic, a grin manages to slip through. “Nuthin'.” Just the sight of Dean makes him happy to be alive; there's no word he can find in the English language to describe how he feels. He would rather _show_...

As Sam creeps upward to snatch at Dean's lips, Dean brings up both hands and shapes Sam's head in his palms. He leans his forehead again Sam's head—he _knows_... _he always knows_... Sam never has to tell him... “I know...” and then he allows himself to be pushed backward on the bed and dragged up to the headboard, sheer bliss on the face of Dean Winchester as he releases a heavy sigh of pure contentment...

Sam knows exactly who he can trust and put his whole devotion and affections toward.

 **~*~the end**


End file.
